Boy of the Westend

by Zack

  “You like this don’t you, Mike?”

  Mike did. There was little point in denying it as his cock almost leapt into Jeff’s besieging fist. At the same time he pushed his own hard-on up against Mike’s crack. “Don’t worry about a thing, baby,” Jeff murmured. Mike had James to worry about but at Jeff’s touch his unthinking motor responses seized control and relaxed his muscles. Mike slowly turned around in Jeff’s soapy embrace until their lips met in a gum grinding kiss. Mike could feel Jeff’s giant cock pressing against his own. It made him feel inadequate.

  “Jeez, you’re a tree trunk,” he exclaimed, and couldn’t resist holding the rigid shaft. He pulled slightly away from Jeff, so he could have a look at it. A good ten inches long and at least six around. “It didn’t look that big when you stripped off.”

  “So you were getting a good look then, you little cock tease.”

  “No. I’m just not very experienced.” Mike would have batted his eye lashes if it had made much sense standing in a downpour. You got long lashes, sunshine, use ’em to your advantage whenever you can at the passing johns, Jim used to instruct. If Jeff thought he was being put on, he didn’t show it. Or perhaps he wasn’t used to reading British signals? Or maybe he didn’t fucking care.

  “We’ll soon fix that,” Jeff replied, and slid the tips of his fingers into Mike’s ass. Mike played the part and moved away from the touch… slightly. “Ever been fucked before? I mean really fucked good and hard.”

  James is always good and hard, rough as hell even, like that Jez McGowran.

  Mike shook his head and continued caressing Jeff’s cock. He leaned toward the older man and experimentally flicked the tip of his tongue over one of Jeff’s swollen nipples. Jeff started stretching Mike’s asshole by gently rubbing around it, then slipped his fingers further in. Aroused by Jeff’s touch, he laved the man’s nipple harder.

  “Do you give head?”

  Only when absolutely forced to with a customer… but there have been those of my choice, just not much chance. A vision of Jules and zoosh flashed across his whirling thoughts and then the delight of emptying Trevor’s balls. “I couldn’t get you into my mouth.”

  “You could try.”

  Mike waited for a moment to look hesitant while he relished the thought of what was about to happen, and then he followed a rivulet of shower water down Jeff’s hairy chest, lapped at its wetness, lower until it coalesced with the pool rimming the concavity of Jeff’s heaving navel, level with the bobbing heart-shaped knob, which was bigger than Mike’s mouth. Jeff’s hands gently fondled his ears, encouraging him. Mike went to his knees on the tiles, kissed the crown, and dipped his tongue into the flaring cum slot at the tip of the dome. He parted his lips around it and noticed Jeff’s heels lift as he carefully raised himself up on his toes to force Mike’s lips in a widened stretch over the meaty cockhead. He felt like a snake unlocking its jaws to swallow something twice its own size. He couldn’t get very much in and so started rubbing his tongue on the underside of Jeff’s cock. Then he worked down the shaft to lick at balls as big as his own. He flicked his tongue up between the bulging nuts and the fork of Jeff’s crotch.

  “Aw shit, that’s good,” Jeff moaned. “Go lower, kid, really get in there, that’s it.”

  Mike tongue-probed lower down as Jeff parted his legs farther to let him get at the ridge of tight skin between scrotum and ass. With his tongue flicking the perineum, Mike was in no doubt what Jeff wanted next, something he knew of and yet had so far never done, what Alan loved doing. He crouched lower on the tiled floor, and with his head fully upturned, deep between Jeff’s splayed thighs, flitted his tongue between balls and the very edge of that inviting asshole.

  He heard Jeff moan, “Go on kid, eat me, eat me.”

  And Mike did. He curled his tongue into a ferule and thrust up into the crack, wondering as the powerful sphincter muscles gave, allowing the tongue to be almost sucked up. Behind closed eyes he was lost in the amazing sensation. Straining to his uttermost, Mike thrust and retreated and drove up again, and Jeff’s thighs communicated his shuddering delight. Mike was so worked up by what he was doing that he was soon on the point of shooting his load.

  Suddenly Jeff tugged at his shoulder. “Hey, hang on. We don’t want this to end too soon.” He pulled Mike back onto his feet. “That was great, but I really need to fuck you.”

  In truth Mike was still in two minds about this because he associated the act with the callous way James treated him, and there was that massive dick he was looking at to consider… “I—I don’t know whether I can take it.”

  “Well, let me try. I won’t be vicious.” He saw Mike’s hesitation. “I’ll blow you after.”

  Mike smiled briefly. He’d been brought up to be polite. “Okay, where do you want me?”

  “Just kneel on the floor, on your elbows.” Mike turned and sank carefully back down onto the soap-slick tiles. “That’s it. Keep your ass up in the air, legs apart.” Mike felt Jeff kneel down behind him and begin greasing his crack with the juice from his big cock. Then Jeff pressed his meaty weapon up to the hole. “Just relax, it’ll be easier that way.”

  Mike was then treated to the most amazing sensation. As promised, Jeff took it so slowly, so gently he hardly noticed the initial penetration as Jeff’s vast tool slipped into him. He felt the sensation pushing deeper inside, still so carefully. When Jeff was in almost to the hilt he grasped Mike’s flanks and began to fuck him for real. They were both slipping about on the streaming shower stall floor as Jeff yanked back on Mike’s hips, driving him hard onto the rigid shaft. Each massive cock punch shook the wind from his lungs and Mike grunted, and yet each time he willingly let himself be pulled back again onto rigid flesh. Then Jeff held him down and fucked him from the hips, plunging in deeper with each powerful thrust. Again and again the big fat cock rubbed the linings of Mike’s asshole, every thrilling assault touched something deep in there that sent electrical thrills right through his body and made him go weak at the knees. This was just so different from the way James Rosen did it.

  He gasped as Jeff repeatedly hit his sweet spot. The pace grew faster and more furious, and now Jeff was able to pull himself almost right out and still slam back into Mike’s passage as hard as he could so that both of them got the full benefit of the enjoyment. After a minute of this, Jeff’s breathing became loud gasps and then with a deep groan of pleasure he exploded into Mike’s very being. Mike loved the feel of Jeff’s whole frame shuddering in ecstasy against him, his cock so damned hard, still pumping as he creamed and creamed his essence into Mike. His own balls burned and boiled for release.

  Jeff was barely finished when he pulled out and flipped Mike onto his back. His knees were pushed up and Jeff slid him along the floor so that Mike’s straining prick slid straight to his waiting mouth. Mike saw Jeff’s long tongue go to work on the crown of his cut cockhead. Mike writhed delightedly as hot lips closed down around his hard rod and Jeff gripped it tightly. Jeff worked his way back to the tip and then fell down around it again. He started going faster and harder. This was as good as Trevor, as good as Kevin, and something James had only granted him once, begrudgingly.

  Mike’s world became a hazy dream of steam, stinging spray, and unconstrained desire. His balls ached to release their weight of cum and he was certain he couldn’t restrain himself much longer… and then he felt the incredible sensation of being fucked again. How? Jeff’s fingers! The man had stuck two up his ass to finger-frig him some more. Smaller than Jeff’s meat, yes, but they were so hard, so insistent, and so slick with Jeff’s huge load of cum that—

  Suddenly, mouth, throat, lips, fingers, man-heat, and friction popped his cork. Crying out louder than before, Mike ejected a long streamer of sperm. The first gusher was so strong it squirted from between Jeff’s lips, which were cradled around the crown of his cock. Then Jeff went down the throbbing shaft hard and Mike thought he would scream with impossible pleasure. The best fucking sucking ever, a gourmet blow
job. Mike writhed on the unforgiving tiles as he voided the remainder of his release and Jeff swallowed it all down.

  And then they were both sprawled on the tiles, unheeding of the spray from the shower head high above. Jeff ran hands with surprising gentleness through Mike’s tangled hair and brought his lips to bear down softly, wetly, both of them half-laughing, half-drowning.

  An hour later, they were still lying on Mike’s bed, pretending to be drying off after the shower while in fact languidly stroking each other’s flanks.

  “Hey, you,” Jeff murmured in Mike’s ear. “I have to get back to Harry for a beer before dinner, or he’s going to wonder what the hell’s happened to me.”

  “Is Harry… er… as well?” Mike asked, still clinging to the little-boy-lost innocent act.

  “Gay? Shall I just say we flipped a coin for you.” Jeff’s lips twitched disarmingly.

  “That’s nice,” Mike said, with a touch of huff, although he was certain it was another well-tried line.

  “Don’t get me wrong, kid. You’re okay. I’d say you’re going to go far on this film, if you carry on like this.”

  “I’m not a whore, you know.” For a moment Mike thought his prim cover blown by the considering look Jeff gave him and the amusement visible in his eyes.

  “Really? Who’s not? In this business everybody’s a whore of one sort or another.” Jeff got up. “Anyway. It’s time for evening chow soon. But as for going far, take my advice. Steer clear of Harry.”

  Mike sat up and swung his legs down to the floor. “Why, is he an axe murderer?” He grinned. “Isn’t that what—what’s her name?—Sheila. Yes, she warned me to stay clear of you, and look how badly that went.”

  “Yeah, but I’m great in the sack, and Harry’s real rough with it.” Jeff backed up his warning with another of his bug-eyed, bared-teeth smiles. And he left Mike pondering on the implication of that remark about carrying on like this.

  How far am I going to have to go?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  La Dolce Vita

  He discovered the answer, or at least a part of it, next morning. “Can I borrow your boy?” Jeff asked Alan as they all climbed up into the second bus.

  Alan waggled his eyebrows suggestively and dipped his head at Mike, who followed the focus-puller farther on down. Jeff lowered himself up against the bus’s crazed window and Mike settled beside him, enquiry written all over his face.

  “What I said yesterday—”

  “About paying for the air-con?”

  “No… well, maybe. Just thought you should know, you being the youngest on the crew, it’s only fair. James Rosen, our producer, has a lot of contacts here in Rome, and our director Kennith Mitchener is one of his men. He did his growing up at M.G.M. and then did a lot of television stuff at Universal, but Rosen gave him his big break.”

  Hearing James’s name from Jeff’s mouth gave Mike a funny hollow feeling, but he made no comment, just nodded encouragement.

  “Thing is, the mysterious ‘them’ who know these things say Mitchener also provides Rosen with another service, which started on the TV serials. He gets his hands on the kind of hunks Rosen likes for… his bed. There are so many young hopefuls hanging around Hollywood, it’s not difficult. But Rosen has a rep for fucking them and throwing them.”

  This wasn’t news to Mike. James had made veiled references to his “discards,” but it was disturbing to hear it confirmed from another source.

  “So, all I’m saying is that Mitchener is always eyeing up potentials. Don’t get me wrong. He only fucks women. Well, I think he does. Perhaps he ain’t really interested in sex. I know he doesn’t screw boys, but he does throw parties at which guys like you are considered prizes for the wealthy of the land, or he sets ’em up for Rosen’s cronies. And the worst of the bunch lives right here in bee-ootiful Roma. Name of Franco Fantini. A nasty piece of work.”

  Mike opened his eyes wider at the name. “Didn’t he make some of the early Spaghetti Westerns?”

  “Yeah. Financed them, anyway. Made a fortune and now owns most of what counts in the Eye-talian movie business.” Jeff turned away to stare out at the passing streetscape. “When I said you could go far, I was kinda joking, like you might with me, maybe Harry. I’m too hard on my ol’ buddy Harry. But you’d definitely be a major hit with Mitchener on behalf of his boss. In fact I can’t believe you got on this crew without Rosen having approved your job. He usually likes to check out his boys himself. Mayhap because you’re a Brit. Anyhow, I guess I’m warning you to avoid any party that involves the fat fuck Fantini. You come across that kid Angle yet, one of the Italian stagehands?”

  “I think he’s the one been making eyes at me.”

  Jeff laughed. “Well… your wallet,” he drawled. “Far from me to warn you off him. But seriously, he knows things about this here place, he and his street-gang cronies. And rumor says some of the Italian kids who get dragged into these parties… disappear.”

  Mike’s eyes opened even wider. “Really!”

  “Don’t know myself. Just sayin’, watch your back. You seem like a good kid, and having showered with you, I feel kinda responsible to look after you.”

  And he finished with another flourishing Jeff-style grin.

  Fascination had Mike glued to the sight of the big Panavision camera on its lightweight studio crane. After the bulky, blimped old Mitchell the film school owned, this sleek beauty shouted Movies! Cinema! Major Motion Pictures! Clapper Boards and Action!

  Alan, Billy, and Johnny-Ray brought him back to earth, or the studio floor, as they set up for the first scenes of the first day. Attached to the sound crew, Mike’s responsibilities were relatively light on paper, but he wanted to make a good impression. Jeff had dropped a hint he should make himself available to Del, the first assistant. “Miserable bastard, but you do stuff for him, fawn a bit, it won’t do you no harm. Del will get to do some of the lesser out-of-town location stuff and stunt scenes Mitchener won’t stoop to, so that’ll help if you’re in with him. And you better get in first—I hear there’s a kid coming out from L.A. at some point to be the production-direction side’s gofer to replace the guy who got sick two days after getting out here. Couldn’t take the po -lenta,” he added in mysterious explanation for the illness.

  While Billy and Johnny-Ray set up the sound chariot and boom microphones, Mike watched Harry and Jeff prep the big camera with their assistant, the gaffers, and clappers-loader. He finally caught a glimpse of the director. Kennith Mitchener was a disappointment. He seemed terribly ordinary. Mike had expected… well, something a bit more Hollywood.

  The first scene slated on the production cross-plot involved Emmanuelle Lai, the international movie star who would bully her way past Fascist soldiers guarding Il Duce’s offices and then sweep imperiously to the top of a grand marble staircase. It wasn’t a difficult scene, chosen deliberately as an easy warm-up to the schedule ahead. For an hour Alan kept him busy with initial paperwork, and when he was done a hush came over the noisy sound stage. The star made her entry amid a flurry of personal assistants, and make-up girls and hair stylists to ensure the perfection of her maquillage. She nodded off-handedly to her stand-in, who had been rehearsing with Mitchener for the lighting cameraman and Harry.

  “Emmanuelle Lai,” Johnny-Ray hissed from the side of his mouth behind a cupped hand.

  Mike knew. He’d seen her recently in the rather arty French film Phoebe sous le boisseau —or Ruling Phoebe, to give it its English title—and thought her performance pretty striking. To see her in the flesh… amazing. It seemed as if a theatrical spotlight followed her every movement. She glowed with an inner light. He recalled seeing the Queen Mother close up in a car once. She had been luminescent as well.

  “Know her real name?” Johnny-Ray hissed again.

  Mike frowned and shook his head.

  “Ester Bunt. The French accent’s fake. She was born in Peoria, Illinois. Been on two movies she was in, and I tell you, she’s awful, but Mi
tch will get something out of her. She’s superstar material—an IQ of ten and tits to waggle like no one else in the business. She may be a boozed-up dumbass, but she looks great in the dailies.”

  Mike’s expression must have struck Johnny-Ray as funny. He laughed and converted it to an embarrassed cough when Del turned to glare at him.

  Barely a week into the shoot the grapevine vibrated with rumors of a big bash coming up. It was Sheila who confirmed it. She had a message for Mike from Rosen’s personal assistant in L.A. To make sure he presented himself to Kennith Mitchener to attend a party he was arranging in honor of his good friend Franco at the Palazzo Fantini.

  “There’s no way out, really,” he told Jeff.

  “Fantini will want your ass, or something, really bad. Just try to keep out of his clutches. You can’t miss the man. He’s gross. You oughta see him long before he sees you.”

  “You been to one of these dos?”

  “Last year. We shot some scenes here in Rome. But I was safe. Too old, too hoary for Fantini. He prefers his meat to be at least veal.”

  He wasn’t alone. Mitchener had arranged most of the youngest members of the crew, who rode into the suburban splendor of Rome in hired limousines. Mike thought it a bad omen to be invited to go with Mitchener, who only spared him a brief glance and a sort of affirming nod of satisfaction before he sat up front. Mike rode in the back with young Angelo, the boy with an “Angle” on everything. They got on well in a language of broken English, and Mike’s Latin sort of helped with some of the Italian, though it often rendered Angle helpless with laughter, to Mitchener’s silent irritation. Behind high walls, garden lighting peeked through thick greenery. Mike stared with apprehension at the massive Renaissance mansion. Hidden floodlights etched its lines sharply against the dusky sky. From within and without, the noise of revelers mingled oddly with the melancholy strains of the theme from M*A*S*H, which wafted from somewhere in the palazzo’s depth.